


Twenty Years

by TurtleTotem



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:05:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it ever too late to come home?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Years

**Author's Note:**

> ((Note on the "cast" of this fic: as awesome as Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen truly are as older Charles and Erik, it's the Fassavoy version that I'm obsessed with, so feel free to follow my lead and visualize an older McAvoy and Fassbender playing these parts. Also, call it an AU where Charles never went bald because I just can't picture a bald James McAvoy, it hurts my brain.))

It's been a long day, and Charles is tired, paying little attention to his surroundings as he steers the wheelchair into his bedroom. No one else at the mansion today knows the significance of this date, this twisted version of an anniversary, and that somehow only makes it harder to forget it himself. But he's going to bed now, the anniversary is over. When he wakes it'll be just another day, just a day...

In his distraction, he doesn't sense Erik's presence until the instant before he catches sight of him in the chair by the window. It's certainly not unprecedented for Erik to drop in like this, especially on this date, but he hasn't done it in so long now, Charles had not thought to hope for it. _Hope for it_ , odd choice of phrase, when already his pulse has picked up, wondering whether the man is here as Erik or Magneto, how much and what kind of pain he's going to cause him this time. He has the cursed helmet in his lap, not a good start. But he isn't wearing it, at least.

"Hello, Erik."

"Hello, Charles." His voice is neutral, expressionless  but then, so is Charles's. He's sorely tempted to peek past the cool façade and see for himself what Erik's doing here, but Erik is so good at sensing Charles's probes -- and resenting them -- that he doesn't dare.

He hefts himself from the chair to the bed and starts removing his shoes. "I'm rather tired, Erik, so if there's something you wanted to talk about..."

"It's twenty years today."

Charles looks at him silently a moment. Does Erik imagine he is somehow unaware of this? "Yes," he says at last, colorlessly.

"A lifetime. A _life_ ," Erik says, pushing solid white hair out of his eyes. His voice drops, little more than a whisper. "The life we should have had."

More painfully, Charles says again, "Yes."

"I always thought there would be a time that someday you would change your mind, or circumstances would _force_ us together, or -- But we can't count on that, can we. Not after twenty years of it not happening."

"What are you saying, Erik?" It sounds frighteningly like a goodbye, and Charles feels a trickle of panic. _No no no_. Even hurting each other over and over again is better than nothing, than giving up forever, even if their cease-fires have been increasingly brief, increasingly far between...

"I'm tired of this," Erik says. "Of waiting, of fighting, of being separated when we _shouldn't_ be. I'm sick to death of it. Twenty years we've wasted fighting, and not just us, either, but our people -- brother against brother, and for what?"

For _what?_ Where to begin? For the lives of countless people unlucky enough to be in Erik's way, perhaps? But he doesn't say it, doesn't start the argument, because he _does_ understand what Erik means, he does know the futility, the endless stalemate in this game that neither of them can forfeit. Both of them driven to the brink of insanity by the other's inability to compromise. What is there to do, but hold grimly on until the next turn in the dance, the next stolen moment where victory means neither of them has tried to kill the other?

 _silent chess games in the park, always ending in stalemate -- frantic kisses in an empty hallway, lifted from his chair and pinned to the wall -- unsigned birthday gifts -- the time he was so, so ill and Hank actually called Erik to come say goodbye and Erik locked everyone out of the room, crawled into bed with him and growled threats at him until he promised not to die--_

Those were the times to live for, everything else was to be endured.

"I don't know what to say, Erik." Charles feels abruptly exhausted, down to the marrow. "We've had this conversation so many times."

"Well, this is the last time." He crosses the room, drops to one knee, and lays the helmet in Charles's lap.

Charles stares.

"I've been an idiot, Charles. For twenty years. So have you, of course, but I'm not interested in accusations or making you apologize." The next words are tight, barbed with irony and something like distant amusement. "I'm interested in peace."

Charles's hands curl around the edges of the helmet, disbelieving.

"Before you ask what changed my mind, Charles, the truth is I haven't changed my mind about very much. I still believe that mutants are better than humans and I still believe in doing whatever's necessary to protect ourselves. So I don't know how to make this work, not the first idea. Compromise, diplomacy  therein lies your expertise, not mine. But I'm here." He nudges the helmet out of Charles's hands in order to grip them in his own. "I'm here, and I'm not leaving. Not until we've fixed this once and for all."

 _And once we've done that_ , the words float from him unspoken, _what reason will I have to ever leave?_

Charles can hardly breathe, hardly move. Hope, the great bright ensign he's waved all this time, the star he's followed through every storm, is almost too much for him to bear now. To have _this_ hope laid at his feet -- he can hardly stand the risk of reaching for it. "If this is a dream," he says, half-choked on tears, "or a trick -- if this is some kind of trick, Erik, I'll kill you, I swear it--"

"No dream. No trick. This is real, Charles. Check and see." He raises Charles's hand to his own temple.

Charles lets the hand trail down to Erik's neck, leaning forward to touch his forehead to Erik's. His eyes drift closed as he sifts through Erik's mind -- through the long nights arguing with himself about this, the trembling fear that he'll be rejected, or that his people will refuse to follow him in this, or that even with both of them giving it their all, they still won't be able to compromise. And the hope, like a grain of sand brighter than the sun, the hope that they _will_.

"Oh, my friend." Charles is weeping in earnest now. "I've missed you so much."

Not quite dry-eyed himself, Erik raises a hand to Charles's face, brushing tears with his thumb. The other hand remains in tight grip with Charles's in his lap. "I daresay you'll be sick of me soon enough. This isn't going to be easy."

"No. It won't. Swear to me, Erik, swear you won't give up. You won't storm out, a week from now, declare the whole thing a hopeless mistake  -- we'll never make it work unless we're both absolute _delusional_ levels of committed--"

"Oh, we've both had that down for decades now. We just need to change our aim a little." He rises just enough to kiss him -- lightly, briefly. "I swear," he whispers against Charles's lips, "I'm not leaving unless you throw me out. Actually... not even then."

Professor Charles Xavier is so seldom without words, but right now all he can do is radiate everything straight into Erik's mind, all his joy and love and hope and fear and fierce determination and _why are you not kissing me again already--_

Erik is happy to rectify _that_ , kissing every part of Charles that he can reach, and removing whatever needs removing so that he can reach more. Charles is busy returning the favor, scrambling backward to make room for Erik on the bed.

Neither of them cares or even notices when his hand knocks against the helmet, and it rolls off the bed to lie completely forgotten on the floor.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not Allowed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112832) by [superheroine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superheroine/pseuds/superheroine)




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